


To Challenge the Gods

by ilokheimsins



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilokheimsins/pseuds/ilokheimsins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne meets Eames when her father retires out of sheer boredom.</p>
<p>Arthur meets Ariadne and Eames when he is young, so young, in fact, that he doesn't really remember them or the mystical way he meets them.</p>
<p>Arthur meets Ariadne and Eames again when he is older in a much more mundane manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Challenge the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fill for the 2015 I-Reverse Bang! There's a massive chunk of this story that I was unable to complete on time that's sitting half finished on my computer and may or may not get finished later. We'll see. But this can stand alone and I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Also if someone could seriously show me how to put links in these Author's Notes so I can put the link to my prompt that would be fantastic.

Ariadne isn’t even a hundred when her father decides, in the true fashion of the God of Mischief, to retire right in the middle of the centennial pantheon.  He just up and announces that he’s retiring, cutting off a particularly long winded update from the God of Skies (God of Complaints, more like).  He poofs out in an elegant cloud of smoke and then all eyes are on Ariadne, where she’s standing next to her father’s throne.  She clambers into it, muttering darkly about how this is obviously why her father wanted to bring her.

“Your update?” Saito says.  He’s the God of Gods, the one who decides when they create new gods and when they cast out ones who have been derelict in their duties.  Ariadne’s pretty sure that’s just code for ‘we’re not entirely sure how or when he appeared but we didn’t want to seem dumb’.

“Oh, yes, um, there’s been a lot of messing around with the dreams of mortals.  Papa gave one of those explorer types the idea to go west to get to Asia,” She says.

Saito nods with the barest movement of his head and Ariadne senses she’s just passed some sort of test.  Apparently Saito has deemed her good enough to sit among them, even if she really has no idea what’s going on.  She lets out a noisy exhale of relief and the god seated next to her snorts.

“Eames,” Saito commands.

Eames is slouched low in his chair, rolling a toothpick in between his lush lips.  He’s wearing some godawful clothing that Ariadne is sure humans haven’t even invented yet and, if she has her way, will never invent.  Whatever it is, it’s blindingly awful.

“There’s been a slowdown recently,” Eames says.  “Plague’s finally out, I think.”

The rest of the meeting is more of the same, bored updates on the state of humanity, and Ariadne can see why her father retired as soon as she was nearly a full century.  It’s only been several hours and she wants to retire.  There’s the familiar itch to cause mischief bubbling under her skin and she just wants this meeting to be over so she can go sprinkle a few ideas here and there.

She’s got a particularly good one involving roasted meat.

The pantheon finally, finally finishes and Ariadne hops off her throne (and isn’t it strange to think that she has a throne now) and beelines for the door.  A hand on her wrist stops her and she whips around to glare daggers at the being.

Eames raises his hands in surrender and smiles, his plush lips twisting up in wry amusement.

“Now, now, pet, I was just thinking I could show you around, you being new here and all,” He says calmly, as if he were speaking to a skittish animal.

“Please,” Robert scoffs from next to Eames, “as if she would want someone like you to show her the ropes.  You barely know the ropes as it is.”

Ariadne coughs to clear her throat and very deliberately looks slightly to the left of Robert as she addresses him.  There are so many reasons Robert is the God of Beauty and the way the air about him seems to be permanently glowing is really the least of them.

“Thank you,” She says.  “But I think I can figure it out on my own.”

“Oh no, kitten, we insist.” Eames is jovial as he slings an arm around her shoulders and practically drags her over to where a cluster of other gods are waiting.

Mal, God of Passion, looks absolutely flawless in her regalia and she smiles sweetly when she catches sight of Ariadne.  Next to her is Cobb, God of Philosophy, looking significantly less flawless as he wrestles his jacket off.  There’s elbow patches on it and Ariadne vows that that’s another thing that will never see the light of humanity if she can help it.  Yusuf is juggling a furry thing he calls a puppy – which patently refuses to stay still and keeps attempting to dive bomb face first to the ground – that he insists on introducing to the humans at some point in the future.

It’s a collection of the pantheon’s youngest gods and Ariadne is the youngest by a good half century.  She says as much and Mal assures her that everyone below their seventh century is perceived to be young.

Ariadne likes Mal enormously and Cobb well enough, though the way the man suddenly bursts into a tangent about trains and lovers has her inching away slowly.  Yusuf gifts her the puppy and he’s immediately her favorite – Mal pouts ferociously at her swayed affection.  Robert is far less stuck up than he first seems.  He confides in her that he’s simply trying to show everyone that his father’s approach to being the most beautiful was not the only one.  Arrogance looks good on no one.

It’s only Eames that she can’t get a handle on and at first, she truly doesn’t want to.

***

Oddly enough, she and Eames get along famously.  Eames coaxes her down to the underworld one day, where she gets rip-roaringly drunk off the liquor he keeps stashed away.  She builds a tower that keeps threatening to topple but never truly does and the spirits adore it.  They cart her about and confide in her about Eames’ gambling with them and teach her the best way to clean Eames at a game of four card poker.

Eames comes to visit her up in her floating home, which spits lightning at him like a playful pup nipping at its newest playmate’s heels, and sketches ludicrous things for her to whisper into the dreams of humans.  It’s three centuries of easy friendship full of lounging lazily in their domains, pranking the other gods, and making Robert’s bottom lip do the wobbly pout that means he wants to cry but won’t.  Mal always yells at them when they make Robert’s lip do the wobbly pout.

“You are a horrible influence,” She shouts at Eames while clutching Robert, who’s sniffling surreptitiously, to her chest.

Ariadne giggles so hard she falls off her throne, onto the cushioned floors of the pantheon.  Robert’s pout intensifies and his eyes widen until Ariadne’s reminded of the puppy that Yusuf, whose true title is the Maker of Animals, gave her upon their first meeting.

A breeze blows by them, scented with tea and sandalwood and Ariadne turns to see Saito swirl into being, perched elegantly and nonchalantly against a nearby column.

“Robert,” He intones with a hint of warmth and the slightest tilt of his head.

Robert wriggles out of Mal’s grip, dutifully letting her press a kiss to his curls, and shuffles his way over to Saito, who slings an arm around his waist and swirls them both away without so much as a goodbye.  Ariadne opens her mouth to ask, but a quick look from Eames has her swallowing the question and filing it away.

Later, she thinks to ask again, but it’s clear from the affectionate touches Saito adorns Robert with that she really doesn’t have to.

***

Their first competition is more of an accident than any sort of premeditated type of thing.  Ariadne, having finally reached her fifth century, is enjoying her first trip down to the mortal plane when she spies the girl.  She’s dark skinned, with golden eyes that are bright with laughter and mischief – a soul after Ariadne’s own heart, really – and dark hair that is tied up into a long ponytail with a nasty set of spikes woven into the end of it.  She swings herself into Ariadne’s space with a self-satisfied smile and says something rude to a nearby man who tries to paw at her.

“You are different,” She says, tracing delicate fingers over the fine arches of Ariadne’s cheekbones.

Ariadne blushes and the girl delights in the way her skin pinks up.  She giggles and presses a kiss to Ariadne’s cheek.

“So young and shy,” She remarks.  That gets a bit of a laugh out of Ariadne.

“Not so young,” Ariadne replies.

“No?” She smiles knowingly and Ariadne closes her eyes when she leans in for another kiss.

“Amali!” Eames’ voice comes booming across the tavern and Ariadne startles.  She pulls back to see Eames, bare-chested, bare-footed, and swathed in the loose pants favored in the area.  He comes loping over, more than one patron of the bar letting their gaze linger on the rounded swell of his muscle.

The girl in Ariadne’s lap slings a hand loosely around Ariadne’s neck and uses it to anchor herself as she bends backwards.  Her eyes light up delight when she spots Eames.

“Eames!” She slithers off Ariadne’s lap, dropping her hands to the floor to flip her legs up into the air.  She springs neatly off the ground and then whips around to jump up into Eames’ waiting arms.

“And who is your delightful friend?” Eames asks, a wicked sparkle to his eyes, as he carts Amali back to where Ariadne’s glowering at him.

“This is—”

“Ariadne,” Ariadne says briskly.  “Pleasure to meet you, _Eames_.”

Amali picks up on the bit of rancor in the way she says Eames and she drops her feet to the ground gracefully.

“Now, Ariadne,” Amali says, patting her wrist, “Eames is a friend.”

“I’m sure he’s a wonderful one,” Ariadne replies, her eyes still trained on Eames, who looks smug as all get out.

Amali wrinkles her nose delicately and darts quick glances between the two of them.  Whatever conclusion she eventually draws, she ignores it in favor of shouting at the bartender for a round of drinks.  Which is how Ariadne finds herself, on her very first visit to the mortal plane, trying to out drink Eames for the affections of a pretty human.

(It’s certainly not the last time, not by a long shot.

Ariadne wins, not that she knows the effects of winning at the moment of victory.  She doesn’t find out until later, when Amali’s whispering filth in her ear and coaxing her to an orgasm.  Eames finds this out when he stumbles in on them with their fingers deep in each other’s cunt several days after.)

***

It’s sort of a tradition after that first time.  Sometimes Eames starts it, sometimes Ariadne does.  Sometimes it’s one of the others in their group of young gods.  They all sort of blur together after a bit because mortals live so few years that Ariadne and Eames barely have time to settle before the next one comes around.

There are some they remember clearly, though those are few and far between.  Even fewer are the ones that they cherish enough to nominate to face the trials for godhood.  Amali, who’s doing quite well in her position as the God of Dance, is the only one Eames and Ariadne found themselves invested enough to want to keep for long afterwards.  Though she’s eschewed them in favor of playing about with the young men and women who call on her favor.

“The two of you,” She laughs when she sees their expressions.  She dots a kiss to both of their cheeks and then shakes her head.

“You are beautiful the two of you, but you want a loyalty I cannot give you for the rest of my being,” Amali whispers solemnly.

Ariadne and Eames drink themselves stupid over her and she comes around at some point with Mal to kick their asses into gear.  It’s terrifying having Amali and Mal casually chatting about each and every one of Eames’ and Ariadne’s faults while tearing their bedsheets from about them.  Ariadne doesn’t know about Eames, but she gets over Amali pretty quickly because she has a sense of preservation that does not include trying to woo someone who is Mal’s new best friend.

***

“It’s your fiftieth competition,” Yusuf remarks from where he’s shaping together some sort of eldritch abomination to dump into the depths of the mortal plane’s oceans.

“Is it really?” Ariadne’s barely paying attention.  She’s busy tracing out the idea for this thing she wants to call dreamshare and looking for the perfect candidate to induct it with.

“You should choose someone special,” Yusuf continues.

“Mmm,” Ariadne hums distractedly.

“Maybe you could let me in on how it’s going this time?  So I can actually win a pool once?”

Ariadne feels the little zing across her fingers that signifies the perfect carrier for her latest idea.  She pops into the mortal’s dream, settles into the plush bear at her back and waits for the mortal to show up.

He does eventually, a young boy, about nine, that sits morosely on the floor of the playroom he’s dreaming about.  He reluctantly pushes around several toy soldiers.  Ariadne strains her hearing when she notices the boy’s mouth moving and she frowns deeply.

“Be good.  Be strong.  Don’t falter.  Always fight.  Losing is not an option.”  The boy repeats them over and over, getting more and more glum with each iteration.

Ariadne claps her hand and announces, “Alright then!”

The boy startles violently and hauls one of the toy soldiers back into what Ariadne notes is a perfect knife throwing form, and stops abruptly to stare at her.  He squints at her suspiciously before slowly setting the toy down.  Ariadne shuffles a bit closer, hauling the gigantic teddy bear with her.  Once she’s a couple of feet from the boy, she settles back into place and absently pets her scarf down.

“How are you?” She asks politely.  “I’m Ariadne.”

The boy stares at her and she can practically see the war between manners and suspicion happening.

“Arthur.”  Manners won, then.

“Would you like to know about this fantastical idea I’ve been thinking about?”

“No.”

Ariadne blinks.  Arthur’s resumed playing slowly with his toys, lining them up by height.  She opens her mouth to say something, finds herself completely blank, and closes her mouth again in shock.

No one has ever said no to her.  There’s something about being a god, a presence that pulls people to them and makes their minds more susceptible to what they want.  Children, being creatures of whimsy themselves, are the closest in alignment to Ariadne’s calling and so usually agree with her readily, before she’s even got her words all the way out.

“Are you sure?” She asks finally.

“I am a good boy,” Arthur says stubbornly, his chin jut out in a way that Ariadne’s almost positive he’s learned by copying his father.

“You can know about fantastic things and still be a good boy,” Ariadne tries.

Arthur shakes his head.  “Good boys don’t think about fantastic things.  Good boys only think about being good and how to be the best.  That’s what father said.”

“You’re sure then?” Ariadne says reluctantly, “it’s just that you’re really the only one who can do it.”

Arthur looks the slightest bit intrigued at that but he eventually shakes his head.

“If you’re sure then,” Ariadne sighs.  She presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead and he startles again, blinking curiously up at her as she stands.

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

***

Arthur wakes in his bed.  He shuffles into an upright position and takes stock of his small room.  It’s practically Spartan in its emptiness, a small desk the only other piece of furniture aside from his bed.  It had all been so real though.  Ariadne telling him that he was the only one and that he could be good and fantastical at the same time.

He lies there, contemplating his dream with the strange lady, until the sun peeks through the slats of his curtain and he shoves himself out of bed to face the day.

***

Occasionally, Eames mans the desk at the entrance to the underworld, where he dutifully stamps the entrance ticket distributed to each and every mortal upon their death.  It’s a boring job and Mal is always yelling at him to hurry it up and not make small talk, but it’s really in Eames’ blood to do so.

It’s just so _boring_ reviewing tickets on and on and on.  It really isn’t hard to gather why Eames is always mysteriously busy with something when someone (Mal) mentions him taking a crack at it.  But today – or maybe several days ago, Eames doesn’t know how long he’s been here, only that it’s unending – something unusual happens.

Children rarely show up in his line.  They usually go somewhere else to be dealt with by the God of Childhood, an old matron of a disciplinarian who takes her job even more seriously than she takes herself.  But all children, regardless of method of death, are supposed to go to her.

The fact that this one has come to Eames is very odd.

The boy, brown haired and doe eyed, hands over his ticket solemnly.  Eames scans it over, gathering all the pertinent details in a glance.  Arthur, aged eight, died of a severe asthma attack.

“Well now, Arthur,” Eames says soothingly.

Arthur bursts into tears.

Eames works his mouth uselessly several times; he doesn’t know what to do about crying.  He’s never had to deal with it before.  Everyone who comes through either has known for some time about their death or has accepted that they have died.  Sure, there’s the occasional sniffle or angry sigh, but Eames is almost never on table duty, so he’s never dealt with the criers.

What’s more, Arthur is a very young child who, by the looks of it, is trying to play at being an adult.  He keeps stuffing his palms against his eyes and scrubbing away his tears.  He stares straight at Eames, his lips mashed together in a semblance of a stiff upper lip, even though Eames can see the way his cheeks quiver.

There’s a susurrus of that roils through the lineup behind Arthur and Eames shouts, “Oh, shut it, the lot of you.  You’re already dead, it’s not like there’s some great rush to get where you’re going.”

Which is exactly the wrong thing to say.  The words set off a fresh wave of tears in Arthur and this time it’s accompanied by little hiccoughs.  Arthur fists his hands into his shirt and stares angrily at the edge of the table like it’s somehow to blame for his tears.

“Oh dear,” Eames says.  One of his reapers, Rika – charming girl, is looking more and more terrified the longer Arthur goes on sniveling.  She practically dives for the table when Eames says he’s going to speak to Arthur elsewhere.

“Righto,” She says perkily to the next person in line, “ticket please.”

Eames herds Arthur to a more secluded area, where he’s got loads of squashy pillows loaded up.  It’s his own personal break room and no one, not even Mal, has figured out where it is yet.

“Do stop crying,” Eames says as he arranges a spot for Arthur on the pile of pillows.

Unsurprisingly, Arthur glares at him.  But he does plant himself into the spot Eames has finagled for him, so Eames counts that as a win.

“Now,” Eames makes a vague flapping gesture with his right hand.  “Why don’t you tell me why you aren’t with the other children?”

It’s not a very helpful question, Eames is sure, but then again, it really isn’t as if he’s had any sort of past experience dealing with this sort of predicament.  The fact that Arthur has ended up in the line for adults is odd at best, potentially disastrous at worst.

“Father says other children are not disciplined enough and that I’m only allowed to be around those that are disciplined.”

Arthur recites it as if it’s been drilled into him over and over and Eames has a sneaking suspicion that it has.  And that this is also the very crux of the reason for Arthur being in the wrong line.  No fault of the reapers really, they only collect the soul and pass them the ticket.  And a soul remains in the shape of a ball of light until it reaches the line, where it coalesces into the form its mortal shape was.  But the souls of children and the souls of adults are colored differently, with adults usually a sort of golden yellow color and children being more a purple-y type of thing.

“Arthur, may I have a look at your color?” Eames asks.

Arthur shrugs.  His crying has died down into the occasional sniffle and he’s plucking rather determinedly at the seam of a pillow.  Eames carefully takes hold of Arthur’s free hand and the boy watches curiously as Eames presses his thumb into the very center of his palm.

A brilliant gold shines forth from Arthur’s hand, prompting a gasp from the boy and a very quiet “I thought as much” from Eames.

An uneasy feeling churns and flops in Eames’ gut.  On the one hand, the rules state that he must deal with an adult’s soul as an adult, but it’s clear from Arthur’s appearance that he is still very much a child.  Moreover, he’s one that hasn’t been allowed a childhood of any sort.  So it’s really a favor that Eames is doing the child.

(It may also be a bit that Eames can never resist a bit of rule breaking.)

“I’m going to send you home now,” Eames says.  “Up you go.”

Arthur looks positively indignant as Eames heaves him up into his arms.  He moves his arms jerkily, unsure of where to put them until Eames directs them to his shoulders.

“Come on then, it’s a bit of a walk home,” Eames starts off in the direction of the mortal plane.  There’s not any sort of specific path to the mortal plane, per say.  It’s really more of a blink, think, and you’re there sort of a routine.  Eames is very good at it.

He walks them down through the clouds until a crowded city comes into view.  Arthur gasps, wonderment spreading across his young features as he takes in the buildings below them.  Eames grins and he surreptitiously pushes his thumb a bit against Arthur’s shoulder.  It flickers gold with the faintest touch of purple and Eames grins.

The flat where Arthur lives with his father is easy enough to find, there’s still a strong spirit trail left snaking back to the room, which indicates that it’s only been a few seconds in the mortal world since Arthur was collected.  Spirit trails tend to die out within the minute, so Eames is rather pleased to see that Arthur’s is still glowing brightly. Eames steps them through the glass of the window and indulgingly stands still for a bit as Arthur thrusts his hand in and out of the glass experimentally.

“Are we ghosts?” He asks eventually.

“Spirits,” Eames corrects.  “No such thing as ghosts.  Everyone gets collected when they die.”

He shuffles over to the bed, where Arthur’s body is laying askew, one hand reaching for an inhaler that’s on the floor, the other clutched tightly against the edge of the bed.  Eames surveys the situation, finally saying, “Arthur, darling, open your mouth for me?”

Arthur obliges him and Eames carefully presses his forefinger against the flat of Arthur’s tongue.  Arthur crosses his eyes to look down his nose and there’s a brief flash of blue that has him blinking spots from his eyes.  Eames withdraws his finger and takes a sniff.  He hums a pleasing sound and then sets Arthur down on the bed.

“Your asthma should be cured now,” Eames says.  “I tore it out and sent it off to be taken care of by Caribe.”

“Who’s that?” Arthur asks, his voice a bit small, as if he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to ask.

“He’s the God of Illness.  Nasty fellow, not one I’d like to get on the bad side of,” Eames divulges.

“Are you a god then?”

“I am the God of Death,” Eames says proudly.

“So you kill people,” Arthur says flatly.

“No, no, pet, I rule over the dead, make sure they’re comfortable.  Send them off for reincarnation if that’s within the realm of their beliefs.  I don’t have anything to do with the actually dying bit.”

Arthur opens his mouth to ask another question but Eames shakes his head.

“You’ve got to get back into your body now,” Eames says.  “I’m afraid your body will die without a soul in it.”

“Can I ask you questions after I’ve gotten back in?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see me once you have.”

Arthur frowns mightily but he does shuffle along the bed until he’s within touching distance of his body.  He reaches forward tentatively, really unsure of the process of it all, and he’s just decided to ask the other spirit how to do it when he accidentally brushes up against his foot.  There’s a decidedly unpleasant sucking sensation, much like a hook behind his belly button reeling him in, but when he opens his eyes, he’s staring at the floor and his inhaler.

He takes a moment to drink the view in before righting himself and drawing the blanket up to his chin.

“Thank you,” He says and closes his eyes.

Just as he falls asleep, Arthur fancies he feels a kiss to his forehead.

***

Ariadne and Eames look at everything except Nash.  Granted, there isn’t much to look at, but they’re doing a stellar job of finding it so very interesting.

“They interfered!” Nash screeches, waving an accusing finger in the general direction of Ariadne and Eames.

Saito looks bored, which is impressive considering the fact that Saito’s face rarely looks anything but composed and a bit wry.

“So you have said,” Saito interrupts.  “But you have yet to inform me of how they have interfered.”

“He,” Nash stabs his finger viciously at Eames, “brought a child back to life!  And she,” the finger changes directions, “incited the father to send the child away to his grandmother!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ariadne bursts out, “he was sucking the life out of Arthur.  And you’re a scumbag if you think that it’s wrong of us to have tried to make his life a little bit better.”

Eames places a warning hand on her shoulder, because Ariadne does look very much like she’s about to eviscerate Nash and possibly garrote him with her scarf.  Nash likely senses the same thing because he takes a step backward.

“If that is all?” Saito intones.

“What?  But they broke the rules!”

A look from Saito silences Nash.

“It is my deepest wish that the next time you choose to bring an affair to my attention, it is actually worth my attention,” Saito drawls.  “I have far better things to do than humor your tantrums.”

“Things like Robert,” Ariadne mutters under her breath.  She’s sure she said it quietly enough that no one but Eames should have heard, but Saito fixes her with a glance that has just the barest touch of a smirk to it.

Saito inclines his head towards the both of them and then he disappears.

“I have got to learn that trick,” Eames mutters.

“I think it’s one of those things you get when you’re old enough,” Ariadne says, releasing a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

“I’ll get both of you,” Nash snaps at them as he pushes past them to descend from the pantheon.

“Drinks?” Ariadne suggests.

“Oh, gods above, yes.”

***

Ariadne’s still mulling over her dreamshare idea when Saito suggests, in the middle of the centennial gathering, that they make Ariadne and Eames’ competition official, in honor of it being their fiftieth.  Ariadne snaps out of her daze and manages to garble out “Whazzit?”

“Your competition.”  There’s a dry sort of amusement present in Saito’s tone and Ariadne punches Eames.

“That fucking hurt,” Eames grouses at her, rubbing his shoulder in offense.

“Not a dream then, good,” Ariadne says.

“I have chosen one which I believe to be a challenging target,” Saito continues on.  Ariadne sighs and resigns herself to her fate.  The one thing Saito is incredibly adamant towards is competition.  For someone who takes very little interest in affairs outside of those directly concerning Robert, the god loves to gamble.  With good reason too, Ariadne supposes.  In their past competitions, she has yet to see Saito lose a pot.

“Let’s have it then,” Eames waves a hand lazily.

A smile curls over Saito’s mouth and even Eames sits a bit straighter at the sight of that.  Actual facial expressions – outside of events that pertain to Robert – are almost never a good sign.

“I believe the young man’s name was Arthur,” Saito says knowingly.

The protests from Ariadne and Eames are drowned out by Nash’s indignant shouting.

***

“I’m going to be an architecture student,” Ariadne says.  She eyes herself critically in the mirror and then trades her brown jacket for a red one.

“Mafia lord,” Eames smirks at his reflection.  He’s got his hair slicked back and a pair of chunky, square wayfarers makes him look meaner than his lush mouth usually allows.  The suit sits nicely across his shoulders and Eames feels powerful, like a leopard coiled to spring.

“You think Arthur, little Arthur who followed all the rules, is going to go for a mafia lord,” Ariadne scoffs.  Something is still off about her appearance and she squints at herself.  She waves a hand around her hair and yanks.  Loose curls come tumbling down and she ruffles them a bit before nodding in satisfaction.

“I think Arthur, who went to live with his free-wheeling grandmother, would very much go for a mafia lord.  It’s the danger that attracts types like him,” Eames purrs.

Ariadne narrows her eyes at him, “Well, I think it’s the _imagination_ that draws types like him.”

“We’ll see then, won’t we,” Eames grins at her.

“We certainly will.”

***

As it turns out, because Arthur somehow has to be contrary to every expectation they’ve ever had, neither of them are correct.

Arthur snubs the both of them when he meets them, on separate occasions.

***

Eames tries first, because Ariadne, having not realized that being a student meant actual classes, is caught up in the whole song and dance of actually registering for classes.  Being currently holed away debating the merits of one class versus another with her advisor means that Eames is free to look as dangerous and dapper as he wants while he waits for Arthur to come by.

And Arthur is ever so delicious when he does come by.  He’s done up in a pair of tailored trousers with delicate pinstripes that fit the curve of his pert, round arse perfectly and a dark blue shirt that’s fitted over with a pale sapphire waistcoat with silver buttons.  In Eames’ estimation, he looks positively lickable and Eames’ plans for Arthur do involve so much licking.

Eames starts down the path towards Arthur and then, with as much casualness as he can muster, he takes off his glasses to frown at them and wipe at an imaginary smudge.  He trips over a completely nonexistent crack and crashes straight into Arthur, who jerks back and drops all his books trying to catch Eames before he falls.

“I am ever so sorry,” Eames apologizes as he wrangles his glasses back into place.  Arthur’s glare softens at the sight and a little “ah” of understanding escapes him.

“No worries,” Arthur waves it off.  “I wear contacts.  I know how everything blurs when you take them off.”

Eames offers a grateful smile and sets to his knees to gather Arthur’s books up.

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Arthur says hurriedly as he drops to the ground to help Eames.

“Oh no, darling, it’s quite alright.  It was my fault after all,” Eames says.  He grabs a wayward piece of paper and tucks it delicately into the cover of the textbook on top.

When he looks up Arthur is staring at him, his expression flickering from shock to wariness.

“Everything alright?” Eames queries.

“Fine,” Arthur snatches his books back.  “I have to go.  Thanks for your help.”

He’s charging down the path before Eames can even get out the words to ask him to dinner.  Eames is left standing and staring while various other students mill about and watch him with avid, poorly concealed interest.

***

Ariadne runs into Arthur, not as literally as Eames did, when she’s coming outside of her advisor’s office.  She spies an architecture book on the top of Arthur’s stack and she darts over, bright and bouncy, with a “You’re also in architecture then?”

Arthur pauses in what could generously be called a stroll – more accurately a march – to look at her.  He takes in her appearance and Ariadne takes a moment to make herself look like what Mal dubs ‘harried university student chic’.

“No,” He finally admits.  “I just like the way they look and the history behind the different styles.”

“They are just the most fantastic things, aren’t they?” She says and there’s a flash of something in Arthur’s expression.  She dismisses it and carries on.

“I’m Ariadne,” She introduces herself and pats Arthur on the shoulder instead of shaking his hand.

“Arthur,” He replies stiffly.  He shifts nervously from one foot to the other and relief blooms across his features when his phone lets out an obnoxious chorus of “F! U! N! Fun!”

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur says perfunctorily before turning away to juggle his book around and dig his phone out.  He continues on his way and Ariadne gapes at his retreating back.

She harrumphs as he disappears around the corner and absolutely does not stomp her way down to where Eames is waiting with his car.

***

“Mal?”

Mal looks up from where she’s pushing onions around a frying pan to see Arthur setting his books down in their shared living room.

“Arthur!  You’re home,” Mal says brightly.

Arthur dutifully puts his arms around Mal when she flits over to hug him and peck a kiss to his cheek.  She shuffles him to their tiny little dining table before she shoves a fork and a plate with divides in it in front of him.  There are seven different types of mac and cheese in it, each type nestled in its own triangular slice.

“Taste them and tell me which ones you like,” She orders as she flounces into the seat across from him.

Mal watches him as he picks his way around the dish, tasting each one between sips of water.  There’s one that’s got some sort of lemon taste to it that’s intriguing and Arthur tells her as much.  He gives his opinion on the rest – too cheesy, not enough salt, maybe a different size of pasta – and Mal dutifully takes notes on it all.  He helps Mal bring all the dishes and pots to the sink whereupon Mal shoos him away and insists upon doing the dishes herself.

He grabs a bowl of Cheetos and retreats to the couch, where he curls up against one arm.  Arthur watches her bustle about for a bit, clumsily scrubbing at things and stacking them before he clears his throat and asks, “Have you ever met someone that felt like they came out of a dream?”

Mal pauses in her crusade against the dishes to regard him speculatively.  A sly grin, reminiscent of the Cheshire cat, spreads across her lips and Arthur swallows his instinctive reaction to hide.

“Once,” Mal answers finally.  “I thought him a rumor at best, but then I found him.”

Her tone is fond and Arthur, for some reason he can’t quite identify, feels a warm glow in his stomach that makes him feel content.  Mal abandons the dishes altogether and Arthur resigns himself to cleaning them later as she scurries to the couch and plops down next to him.

“But this is an interesting question, no? What has brought about such curiosity?” She asks.

“I met someone at the university today,” He frowns.

“Two people actually,” He amends, “I don’t know what it was but it felt like I’d met them before when I was young.”

“Then perhaps you did?”

“But they looked like they hadn’t aged at all,” Arthur explains.

Mal, strangely enough, looks absolutely delighted at this.  She snuggles back onto the arm of the couch and tucks her feet under his thighs.  Arthur passes her the bowl of Cheetos and she plucks the puffed snacks delicately to munch at them.

“Tell me about them,” She says, waving a half-eaten Cheeto imperiously at him.

And Arthur does, pausing when Mal goes to get wine for the both of them, and starting again.  It turns into a long winded ramble about the features Arthur had found most attractive about them, a bottle and a half in, and Mal looks more and more delighted the more Arthur talks.

“You should go talk to them again,” Mal says and pours Arthur another glass of wine.  She likes to pretend they’re being incredibly classy while getting wasted on wine from the corner store.

“I don’t know who they are,” Arthur mumbles into his glass.  Some of it sloshes out when he takes a sip and it trickles down his neck to stain the tank top he has for this express purpose.

“Just promise me you will talk to them if you ever see them again,” Mal pats his hand sloppily despite her solemn tone.

“I promise,” Arthur pats her hand in return and then slugs back the rest of his wine.

***

The sun burns his eyes when he opens them the next morning.  Mal is curled up at the opposite end of the couch, her wineglass dangling loosely from her fingers.  Arthur slithers off the couch and carefully plucks it out of her grip to set it on their coffee table.  His head feels like a dozen tiny dwarves are excavating the inside of it and he crawls to the kitchen where he forces himself upright to rummage through the freezer.  There’s a stack of gel eye masks in the door and Arthur grabs one to strap over his face before he stumbles to his room and passes out face first into the mattress.

He startles awake some time later – the position of the sun tells him it’s probably around mid-afternoon – and he pushes his eye mask up to see Mal standing sternly next to his bed.  He groans and buries his head back into the pillow.

“What?” He moans.

“You have an appointment at the university in two hours,” Mal informs him.  “I thought you would like to be clean for it.”

She leans down to dot a kiss to the crown of his head, “And I made food.  There is bacon.”

The idea of bacon is what actually lures Arthur out of bed.  He staggers to their tiny shared bathroom and twists a knob, yelping when the water comes pelting out of the showerhead instead of the faucet.

“Mal!” He shrieks.

“It woke you up!  I am being helpful!” She calls back from wherever she is.

“It’s freezing!”

“Be glad it is not burning.”

Arthur pouts ferociously but finds himself unable to argue with her logic.  And he is significantly more awake than he was moments ago.  He tempers the water until it reaches the level just before hot enough to burn and he steps in, sighing in bliss as the water heats all his aching muscles.  The steam billows up and he breathes it in.

His ablutions actually consist of very little.  There’s no scruff whatsoever around his face or neck and a cursory glance under his arms shows too little growth to be bothered with.  His own body wash is gone so he uses Mal’s and ends up standing under the spray of water to wash the overwhelming scent of rose out of his nose.  He forgoes his hair beyond a quick rinse and sneezes again as he catches yet another whiff of Mal’s body wash.

Mal is leaning up against the wall catty corner to the shower and Arthur’s bedroom, elegantly draped over the banister in a perfectly positioned beam of sunlight.  Arthur sidles past her to his room and tosses his towel away to pull clothing out of his dresser.

“Where’s my meeting?” He asks as he rummages through his drawers.

“The Lecter Building,” Mal replies distractedly.  When Arthur peers over at her, she’s busy texting furiously, her perfectly polished fingers flying rapidly over the tiny screen of her phone.

“Shit,” Arthur spares the barest of moments to decide whether or not he needs to arrange his hair into a more logical shape.  He decides no and is just about to despair his tangled fresh from the shower hair when Mal shoves his tin of pomade into his hands.

“A friend of mine will drive you,” Mal says.  “Now do your hair before your face sticks that way.”

Arthur doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know he’s pouting ferociously and he tries a smile that has Mal wincing away.

“No, dear Arthur, do not do that.  Just do your hair,” She orders with one elegantly tipped finger pointed at his head.

He’s just got his hair slicked back – the pomade hasn’t even set yet – when a car honks obnoxiously.  Mal calls for him from the kitchen and then shouts a greeting down to whoever’s just arrived.  Arthur swears viciously and fumbles the buttons on his vest.  He forgoes buttoning it all together, dashing through the apartment and out the door with a rushed goodbye.

Arthur flies out the door and clatters down the steps leading up to the entrance of their building.  He stops short at the sight of the man standing next to a sleek black car.  The man smiles wide and, contrary to the full showing of teeth the smile puts on display, Arthur feels oddly relaxed at the sight of it.

“Arthur, then?” He rumbles, voice rough from the cigarette Arthur can see smoking away in the man’s hand.

The man drops the cigarette and grinds it out under the toe of one finely shined Oxford before opening the passenger side door gallantly.  Arthur hesitantly moves forward and gives a terse thank you before folding himself onto the seat.  He yanks the door closed and the man gives a toothy smile, one that seems to plainly imply that he finds Arthur adorable.

“I’m Eames,” The man says as he turns the key.

“Your parents must have been rich or hated you,” Arthur blurts out and then refuses to look chagrined by his outburst.

Eames just laughs, low and easy, as he pulls the car out of its parking spot.  He gives Arthur a dazzling smile and then shakes his head.

“It’s my surname,” He clarifies.  “Makes a bit more sense, no?”

Arthur shrugs and Eames takes that as good a confirmation as any.

“Now, let’s get you to your meeting, darling,” Eames says.  And there it is again:  that low purr of ‘darling’ that tugs at something in his memory.  It’s odd because no one has ever called him darling that he can remember.  Not his grandmother – she preferred sweetheart – and certainly not his father.  It’s something from a half remembered dream; someone with Eames’ face but looser, more lax, calling him darling and showing him the city from the stars.  Arthur shakes himself out of it and focuses on slipping into his waistcoat, fingers flying nimbly over the tiny silver buttons as he slips them through the proper holes.

Arthur has low expectations of the driving skills of any of Mal’s friends (himself included – more than one person has availed themselves of a puke bag while Arthur takes hairpin turns at ridiculous speeds) but Eames is startlingly normal.  The speedometer never ticks over the speed limit posted in signs and Eames always uses his blinker.

He’s so caught up in the revelation that Mal knows people who are normal that he misses it when Eames asks him something.  Arthur glances in Eames’ direction and says, “Sorry, what?”

Somehow, this makes Eames smile indulgently.

“I asked if you would be amenable to dinner after your meeting,” Eames repeats.

“Like a date.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Eames shrugs.

Arthur is just about to reject it, polite yet firm, when he remembers Mal telling him to at least try to spend time with the people he gets a vague sense of déjà vu from.

“It’s a date then.”

***

Ariadne spies Arthur standing, shoulders tightened defensively and back ramrod straight, in the doorway of the big meeting room of the Lecter Building.  She chances a look at the person Arthur’s speaking to and curls her lip at the sight.  Professor Hooperstock is known widely across the university as a hard ass and even the brightest and best of the students barely scrape together more than a B in his courses.

So, of course, Ariadne takes it upon herself to save Arthur from the reaming he’s undoubtedly facing at the moment.  She juggles her books and espresso around before careening around the corner, feigning panic as she sprints down the corridor.  Once she’s close enough she pretends to trip.  Her books go flying as she shoves her hands out to catch herself and the espresso cup goes arcing through the air, its contents splashing down over Professor Hooperstock.

Ariadne pushes herself off the ground and plasters a look of horror on her face as she spies the professor staring at the brown liquid spreading across his white button up.  Arthur’s eyes widen in recognition as he turns to face her.

“You absolute imbecile!” Hooperstock shrieks.  And, wow, Ariadne was expecting calm and dangerous anger, the kind that you definitely don’t want to fuck with.  But no, Hooperstock is reaching a pitch that is dangerously close to being out of the range of human hearing.

“Clumsy little fool,” Hooperstock continues on.  “Do you have any idea how much this shirt cost?”

“Very little, actually,” Arthur intervenes coolly.  “The threading is so poor that I find it hard to believe you bought that for more than a dollar at the flea market.”

Hooperstock’s mouth flaps uselessly as Arthur bends down to help Ariadne gather her books.  He offers a hand and she takes it, letting Arthur pull her to her feet.  He puts a hand to the small of her back and guides her off.

“I’ll let Professor Mayahajan know of your request,” Arthur throws over his shoulder in lieu of farewell and then they leave the sputtering of Hooperstock behind.

Arthur drops his hand as soon as they exit the building, but he keeps a hold of several of her books as they make their way across the quad.

“Soooo, coffee?” Ariadne asks as they come up on a Starbucks.

“Hmm?”

“Y’know, as a thank you for saving me from Professor shrieker back there.  Also because I need coffee desperately if I’m going to continue to function for the next six hours.”

“Coffee sounds good,” Arthur admits and follows her into the café.

“It’s a date then?” Ariadne says tentatively, a hopeful smile on her face.

Arthur shrugs and offers a shy grin of his own, “I guess it is.”

***

_darling r u cheating on me w our resident greek myth??? :((((_

Arthur stares at the text and tries, with all his heart, not to judge the frowny face at the end of it.

_No, Eames, I am not in fact cheating on you.  Since, you know, we’re not dating.  And how do you know Ariadne?_

He puts the phone back down and gets through another two paragraphs of his assigned reading before his phone buzzes again.

_But darling u + me we could be top. We could run this town_

As he’s reading the text, his laptop pings and he looks up to see a message from Ariadne.

_ARE YOU CHEATING ON ME WITH A MAN WHOSE NAME IS SYNONYMOUS WITH FURNITURE ALSO EAMES AND I MET AT A WORK THING BACK WHEN I FIRST STARTED_

_darling i told Ariadne about ur insecurities don’t worry u can date both of us <3_

_JUST SO YOU KNOW I’M ASKING YOU OUT TONIGHT FOR DINNER + MOVIE SO IF EAMES ASKS SAY NO_

_pet kitten darling sweet light of my life u can’t say no to me :(((( dammit Ariadne just stabbed me w her pencil go to dinner with her I’m less beautiful with holes in my side_

A laugh bursts out of Arthur and he stifles it quickly beneath his sweater at the annoyed looks from the other patrons.  He messages Ariadne back telling her that dinner and a movie sounds fantastic and for her to remind Eames that they have a lunch date tomorrow.  His laptop pings again and he looks over to see Ariadne’s latest message

_He knows.  He’s just being a big baby about not seeing you for 24 whole hours.JFKDA;SLJ SHE’S LYING TO U DARLING_

***

When Arthur tells Mal that she was right about letting people into his life, she’s absolutely ecstatic and insists they buy terrible wine from the corner store to celebrate.  They have a night in and progressively get drunker with terrible romcoms playing in the background as Mal wheedles more and more details out of Arthur.

“And do you know which you like best?” She asks.  She takes a slug from the bottle, wiping her mouth elegantly with a napkin after.  Arthur shakes his head and takes the bottle from her, taking a drink of his own before answering.

“I’ve only been on a couple dates with each of them,” He admits.

“Ooooh?  And the touching?  Have you done the touching yet?” Mal teases.

Arthur rolls his eyes, “No, Mal.  They’re both somehow intent on wooing me or something.”

“Then you should let them,” Mal nods.

“I feel bad about it though,” Arthur replies with a halfhearted shrug.

“You listen to me,” Mal commands, “you will let them woo you because do you know what, Arthur?  For once in your life, someone needs to make you feel precious.”

She nods and taps the wine bottle with a serious look on her face, as if she’s just dumped the secret of the universe on him.

“You deserve someone who wants to keep you forever.”

***

Arthur finds out Eames and Ariadne live together completely by accident.

The night starts out wonderfully, with Eames taking him to an expensive Italian restaurant.  It’s their sixth date and Arthur’s starting to get antsy.  Not to say that Eames hasn’t been perfectly polite.  Which is actually the very crux of Arthur’s problem.  He’s twenty four, in peak physical shape, and Eames plainly finds him attractive.  But somehow the farthest the man has gone is press a lingering kiss to the back of Arthur’s hand.  On top of that, Ariadne insists on being flirty and hints at going beyond a kiss at the end of every date they have before leaving as if all were right in the world.

It’s been an intensely frustrating month and a half for Arthur’s libido, to say the least.

Dessert comes around, an affogato drenched in rich espresso cream, and the sight of Eames sucking the spoon between his plush lips is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.  Arthur excuses himself and walks as fast as he can, without seeming impolite or odd, to the bathroom so he can clutch at the sink and stare at himself in the mirror.

It’s a remarkably simple revelation once he’s thought of it.  And after he has it, he has to stare at himself in the mirror and wonder just how much Ariadne and Eames have scrambled his brain.

He groans and presses his forehead to the lip of the sink, just long enough that the boy standing at the door handing out towels comes over to ask him if he needs to vomit.

They’re just leaving the Italian place when Arthur, apologizing under his breath to his Oxfords, pretends to not notice the ankle deep puddle directly in his path.  As a result, he steps right into it, yelping at the sudden freezing, wet chill that soaks his sock through and begins to climb its way up his trousers.

“Oh, darling,” Eames says.  He helps Arthur out of the puddle and then contemplates the situation.

“I live just down the way, much closer than your place,” He offers finally.  Arthur nods rapidly and then shivers.  The cold is soaking up past his knee and the sharp bite of the wind is making everything that much worse.

Eames wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulls him close when another shiver wracks him.  Arthur turns his head to the side and buries his face in the warm crook of Eames’ neck, sighing as his nose stops feeling quite so numb.

True to his word, Eames’ place is only a block over.  It’s a three story brownstone, one that looks just similar enough to its neighbors to be one of them but different enough to keep from being cookie cutter.  The second Eames pushes them through the door Arthur shucks his shoes off and flits forward to bury his toes in the thick shag carpet in the living room.  He sighs blissfully and hums happily as he shuffles about to place his outerwear on the nearest armchair.

Eames announces his presence with a quiet laugh as he comes up behind Arthur.  He wraps his arms around Arthur and just holds him.  The moment stretches and Arthur comes to the conclusion that if he’s going to get anything out of this, he’s going to need to make the first move.

He spins around and topples Eames onto the couch before straddling the man.  Arthur leans down to kiss Eames and makes a pleased sound when his kiss is returned.

“You gorgeous creature,” Eames murmurs, amazement and affection warming his tone.  “I thought we would wait and then I would woo you with a bed of rose petals.”

“That seems inefficient,” Arthur comments and slips his hands under Eames’ tie to pull it off.  “I’d rather you just fuck me.”

“That can definitely be arranged,” Eames purrs.  And then he stands, hefting Arthur into the air with a grunt.  He carts Arthur across the room, to the staircase and ascends with ease, pushing kisses into Arthur’s jawline all the while.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” He says again as he shoves the bedroom door open.

Ariadne bolts upright off the bed, her glasses askew and a textbook held protectively in front of her.  She relaxes when she sees who it is and then frowns.

“Arthur?”

Arthur spins around as best he can with Eames still holding him and his brow furrows.

“Why are you here?”

“I live with Eames,” She says slowly.

“Eames, put me down,” Arthur orders.

Eames pouts something fierce, but he obliges.  He does, however, settle himself back around Arthur, a furnace at his back.

“So, you chose Eames then?” Ariadne’s tone would be light, practically nonchalant, if not for the hard stare she’s directing past him at Eames.

“I don’t know,” Arthur says and he finds that he really doesn’t.  Ariadne sits a bit straighter at that and a catlike grin curls across her lips.

“I have to choose though, don’t I?”

Eames gives a noncommittal hum in his ear.

“Or,” Ariadne says casually as she slips her chemise off, “you could have us both.”

If you asked Arthur, before this moment, whether or not he was a greedy person, he would have answered with a resolute no.  But faced with the slim, proud silhouette Ariadne cuts in the honeyed glow of the lamplight and the warmth of Eames pressed along his back, Arthur can only think that if it means he gets both of them, he’ll absolutely be greedy.

***

“Fucking shit,” Eames swears as he ducks under the lip above their door.  He’s late for the dinner they’ve been planning for their year anniversary and it’s all because of his lack of an umbrella.  It’s been raining heavily for hours and in the brief period it finally clears, Eames chanced the run home, only to be caught in a sudden downpour that has him soaked through.  He stabs the key into the lock, muttering unpleasant things about gods who find it hilarious to mess with their colleagues.

It’s oddly silent in the house, even though all the lights are on and Ariadne’s shoes are stacked next to a pair Eames thinks he recognizes as Arthur’s.  He hangs his jacket up on the peg and strips out of the rest of his clothing.  The pair of sweatpants he left in the entryway closet is still there and he slides them on before venturing deeper into the apartment with his sopping wet clothing in his arms.  He dumps his clothing into the hamper outside of the bathroom and then shuffles in the direction of the living room, where he can hear the couch creaking every so often.

Around the corner from the living room, Ariadne and Arthur come into view.  Arthur has his hands on Ariadne’s hips, his thumbs massaging slow circles at the soft stretch of her stomach.  His shirt is unbuttoned and Ariadne has one hand running up and down his flank.  Her other is slung around Arthur’s neck to tug at his hair as she bites into the kiss they’re sharing.

Eames feels a bit silly as he leans up against the doorway so that the dim lighting shows off his bulk to his best advantage.  But he carefully arranges himself before clearing his throat to purr, “Well now, this is a surprise.”

Arthur and Ariadne break apart and Eames is deeply satisfied with the way Arthur’s eyes go darker at the sight of Eames.  His mouth, so soft and pink and slick from kissing, drops open and his tongue darts out to run across his lower lip.  Eames prowls forward, rolling his hips and shoulders in a manner that he knows makes him look positively predatory.

“Oh fuck,” Arthur breathes out, the delicate sound practically thunder in the silence of the room.

Eames sprawls loosely in the plush armchair that gives him a clear view of the couch.  He cards a hand through his hair, messing the tight coif.  He spreads his legs wide, straining the soft fabric of his sweats over his crotch, and slouches, shaking himself into an insouciant slouch.  Ariadne leans forward to whisper something into Arthur’s ear and then clambers off to dispose of her shirt on the coffee table.  Arthur pushes himself off and stalks over to Eames, head held high and proud.

If it weren’t for the pink flushing high over his cheekbones and the way his shirt hangs open, Eames would have never guessed that Arthur had been doing anything dirty at all.  But he does know and he reaches a hand around Arthur’s waist to help him slide into position on Eames’ thighs.

“Going to watch then?” He asks Ariadne.

“I’ll get him on the second round,” She replies primly.  She slides into the armchair directly across from the one Eames and Arthur are occupying and strips her jeans off so she can push a hand under the waistband of her panties.

“What do you say, pet?  Shall we give our girl a show?” Eames asks.  He presses a kiss to the inside of Arthur’s wrist and looks up at him through his lashes.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” is Arthur’s affectionate reply.

“So that’s a no,” Eames pouts.

Arthur shakes his head, “No, no, we obviously need to put on a show.  It’s for Ariadne after all.”

The look Eames gives Arthur makes his cheeks heat and his blood rush south.

“Why, darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

***

It’s late morning by the time he leaves Ariadne and Eames’ home, sated and content and with his belly full of good food.  He hums, a rarity all on its own, as he meanders home.  Everything is roses, as much as they can be for him, and he feels light in a way he hasn’t in years.  Mal’s gone for the week, off to visit her boyfriend in Kentucky or something and Arthur has plans to curl up on the couch and absolutely not grab a pillow and moon over his relationship.

There’s someone standing on his doorstep, a greasy looking sort of man that looks up as Arthur approaches.

“Arthur?” He says.  “I’ve got some info for you on Eames and Ariadne.”

“I’m sure you do,” Arthur says dryly.  “Whatever it is, I’m sure I don’t care.”

“What if I told you that they were using you to compete with each other?”

Arthur stops and looks up at the man.  There’s something about him that he instinctively distrusts, whether it’s the smug look on his pinched face or the way his hair hangs in greasy strands to complete the whole shady picture.

“They are, you know,” The man insists, “using you as part of their dick measuring contest.”

And despite everything in his head that tells him not to, Arthur says, “Go on.”

***

Arthur stalks into the bar that Eames “owns” with his coat whirling about him like an unseen wind has seen to it that Arthur should be as dramatic as possible.  He yanks his scarf off and throws it onto the bar and Ariadne can see it’s the one she and Eames made for Arthur’s birthday – the one that has crooked stitching because neither she nor Eames had knit before the scarf and the last R too skinny because they ran out of space.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.  He inhales through his nose and lets the air out gustily through his mouth.  His eyes snap open and he glares at them.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” He says, dangerously calm.

“Tell you what, darling?” Eames asks.  He glances at Ariadne, to see if there’s anything they’ve been remiss in informing Arthur of, and she shakes her head.

“That you’re gods?” Arthur says, waving an accusatory hand at them.  “Or that I’m part of some fucked up competition between the two of you?  Pick one, either is good.”

“You’re not a competition,” Ariadne says immediately, frowning.

Arthur barks out a laugh, cruel and artificial.  He shakes his head and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

“Now that I know, it’s so much easier to see it,” He says.  “I always thought it was weird that you two happened to bump into me at the same time and that you _happened_ to live together.  And then I hear from one of your colleagues that it’s a whole fucking lark.  That you two just wanted to compete for the affections of some brat you saw once upon a time.”

His voice trembles near the end of his tirade and he stops up short.  Eames opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Arthur holds up a hand.

“Just…don’t come near me again,” He says; all the fight gone from him.  He spins on his heel and marches out the door, the little bell tinkling in his wake strangely final in the silence that ensues.

***

“NASH!”

That’s all the warning Ariadne gives Nash before she leaps through the air and tackles him to the ground.  She’s got her scarf around his neck in an instant and tugs it tight before leaning in close.

“How the fuck could you?” She howls.  The way Nash’s face gets paler and paler as he struggles to breath is satisfying to a darker part of herself and it takes the combined efforts of Eames and Yusuf to drag her off the other god.

Her chest is heaving from the sheer anger running through her and she shakes Yusuf off to punch Nash square in the face.  There’s an intensely satisfying crunching sound and Nash stumbles backwards, clutching at his nose.

“He deserved to know that he was just a plaything for some higher powers,” Nash garbles through his now bleeding nose.  He sounds so smug, so arrogant and assured that this is his victory.

“Arthur is not a plaything.”  Eames advances on Nash and he shrinks away, only to find a column at his back.  Eames boxes him in.  Though Eames has no height on Nash, he has a considerable amount of bulk and he makes use of every bit of it as he brings his arms up and seals off any possible escape.

“He was the one we wanted to keep,” Eames hisses.  His eyes flash and he has to breathe for a moment so he doesn’t simply surge forward and tear into Nash’s jugular like he very much wants to.

“We were going to offer him godhood,” Ariadne says tightly.  She no longer looks like she’s going to strangle Nash with her scarf, but Yusuf is hovering next to her just in case.

“We were going to have him forever, if he would have us,” Eames says, as even as he possibly can.

“Yeah?  Well, you took my reputation from me, so I take something from you guys,” Nash sneers.

“FOREVER,” Eames roars and his grip on the pillar shatters through the stone.  Nash screams and ducks down, arms over his head to avoid the rain of marble.  He crawls a few feet away before Eames is on him, fists pounding repeatedly into his face.  He rears back to drive his fist into Nash’s face once more when Nash disappears from under him.

Eames whips around, growling, as he searches for Nash.  His gaze alights on Nash, bloodied and whimpering, at Saito’s feet.  The god looks bemused by the proceedings and waves a hand at them.  Chairs pop up next to Eames and Ariadne and Saito nods at them imperiously.

“Sit,” He commands.

Eames snaps his teeth together at Nash, who startles backwards, but he sits, hunched forward defensively.  Ariadne takes her seat as well, but the way she’s straining forward, practically falling out of her chair, makes it clear that she’s ready to spring forward if Nash so much as coughs wrong.  Saito observes them for a moment more before he smiles indulgently.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that Tianzhe is retiring soon,” Saito begins.  “And he has no children.”

He pauses here to let the implications sink in, because he’s Saito and the one thing that Eames and Ariadne have learned over the years is that Saito is found of his smoke and mirrors.  It hits Ariadne a split second before Eames and they turn to each other, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You mean Arthur?”

“He does seem rather fond of paradoxes,” Saito says casually before turning to face them again.  “No?”

“Absolutely yes!” Ariadne leaps up and hugs Saito tightly. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”  Saito’s face does as complicated a motion as Eames has ever seen and he makes an aborted movement to either pat Ariadne on the back or push her away.

“I’m gonna tell Mal!” She whoops and then sprints off.  Eames slides off his chair much more sedately and nods at Saito.

“Thanks,” He says.

Saito smiles enigmatically and tilts his head the barest amount.

“Do not thank me until Arthur has said yes.”

***

Arthur opens his door and then shuts it immediately.

“Fucking shit!”

He looks down to see Ariadne’s foot caught in between the door and the jamb and he sighs.  He pushes it open and glares at the offenders ruining his perfectly good stay at home night.  There’s mashed potatoes with bacon and a whole queue of cartoons for him to catch up on tonight.  And the people he expressly told to go fuck off are darkening his doorstep just before he starts.

“Just hear us out,” Ariadne says quickly as she takes in the expression on Arthur’s face.

“Also, darling, if you could let us in, that would be utterly charming of you.  The neighbors might start talking if they see us with a man tied up on your step,” Eames pipes up.

Arthur looks past Ariadne and, sure enough, Eames has someone tied up and slung over his shoulder.  He groans, soul deep, and steps back to wave them in.  Ariadne flops right into her favorite chair and Eames dumps his package on the floor before ungraciously ripping the duct tape off the other man’s mouth and wrists.

 In the rather bright lighting of his apartment, Arthur can see the distinctly weasel-like features of the man who’d told him all about Ariadne and Eames.

“This is Nash,” Eames says by way of introduction.  “He’s been giving you…misinformation and now he’s decided, ever so graciously, to correct that.”

He leans back and folds his hands across his lap, looking every inch the predatory Mafia lord he’s been posing as.  Nash glares up at Eames and keeps his mouth shut until Ariadne leans forward and tugs meaningfully on her scarf.  He squeaks and turns to Arthur, scrambling out of reach of Ariadne as he does.

Nash mumbles something angrily and, upon Eames’ growl of “louder”, says, “You weren’t a plaything.”

“And I’m sure Eames didn’t threaten you into saying that,” Arthur says dubiously.

“I thought you were, ok?” Nash bursts out.  He crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child and huffs.

“They broke rules for you and I thought they were startin’ early this time around,” He grumbles.  “Turns out they actually really like you.  She tried to strangle me for ruining your relationship.”

He rubs his neck and glares at Ariadne, who looks shamelessly unremorseful.

“So, y’know, don’t break up with them or whatever,” Nash says.  “Look can I go now?”

“Get the fuck out,” Arthur says.  Nash doesn’t waste another second before he’s out the door.

He hears the door click and he lets out a gusty breath that blows up at his bangs.

“Did you really try to strangle him?”

Ariadne looks ridiculously proud of herself as she says, “Of course I did.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something more and then shuts it, looking incredibly conflicted as he does.

“Darling, we forgive you for not trusting us.  You really can’t be blamed, it’s rather a lot to take in all at once,” Eames says soothingly.

“It’s not that,” Arthur says in frustration.  “I just blew up at you guys.  Didn’t even think to ask for any explanation.  The fact that you guys are _gods_ just threw me off.”

“How did Nash get you to believe that bit anyway?” Ariadne asks.

“He replayed my memories from when I met you,” Arthur admits.  “They kinda looked like a cheapo movie reel, to be honest.”

“To be fair,” Eames says placidly, “Nash isn’t very good at what he’s supposed to do.”

“What’s he do then, as a god?”

“Memories,” Eames says.  “He stores memories.”

“Oi,” Ariadne interrupts, giving Eames a meaningful look.  “Speaking of gods…”

“Ah, yes, Arthur, darling, we have a proposition for you.”

***

“Congratulations,” Mal says brightly as she saunters over.

“You too, then?” Arthur says as Mal hugs him and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Of course, Arthur, did you really think I pushed you towards those two out of the goodness of my heart?” Mal sweeps a hand, elegant and loose, in the direction of Ariadne and Eames.

“I think we should be taking offense to that,” Eames says.

“I’m more worried about everyone we fall in love with becoming friends with Mal.  I think that says something about us as people,” Ariadne replies.

“Probably something worrying,” Eames confirms.

“Probably.”

Whatever it may be, whether the terror Arthur, Mal, and Amali will surely unleash or the fights Arthur is sure to have with Ariadne and Eames, it is all worth the warmth that bubbles up when Arthur turns to smile at them and the knowledge that they will have this for eternity.


End file.
